


He Took a Gun

by CrumblingAsh



Series: Terminal Show [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Silent Hill, Silent Hill (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Silent Hill Fusion, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Feels, Horror, M/M, Silent Hills, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:11:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> Rain pelts against the wood of the roof, the wood of the sides, the wood of the small white coffin swinging sadly from the ceiling, dripping blood like endlessly falling tears from sobbing kept silent in fear of discovery. </i>.</p>
<p>Wake up, Tony. There's blood on the bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Took a Gun

* * *

 

 

_This is a dream. It has to be._

_The clock reads 23:59_

_The hallway is never ending, and the doors are all locked._

_Until somehow one isn’t._

_And then is again._

_And then isn’t._

_Rain pelts against the wood of the roof, the wood of the sides, the wood of the small white coffin swinging sadly from the ceiling, dripping blood like endlessly falling tears from sobbing kept silent in fear of discovery._

_He walks through the crimson puddle, but the sounds of his steps stay dry._

_An echo of happy childish laughter cuts through the hall._

_There’s a radio on the table that sometimes crackles reports, sometimes stays silent. He’s walked past the same (not the same) radio twelve times._

_On the thirteenth time, the clock reads 23:59_

_Someone’s crying. Quiet, muffled sounds of horror and not sadness. Disbelief, denial. The sort of crying that makes you shove your fist into your mouth to keep the sound from turning into laughter because you’re **just that damn wrong (Howard).**_

_That door is locked._

_There could be someone standing there. Or there. In front? Behind? He’s supposed to go through  there, maybe._

_But he takes the door before him, for the fourteenth time, ends up in the endless hallway for the fourteenth time._

_The clock still reads 23:59_

**_He took the rifle, shot his wife as she was cleaning the kitchen._ **

_The coffin swings from the ceiling in earnest, the blood pouring as though the eyes have been slit open so the tears can fall freely. If he listens closely (listens at all) he can hear the faintest of scratching, the lowest of low, childlike whimpering._

**_When his ten-year-old son came to investigate the commotion, the father shot him too._ **

**_His six-year-old daughter had the good sense to hide in the bathroom, but reports suggest he lured her out by telling her_ **

**_it was “just a game”._ **

_Seventeen times through one door that lead to the beginning; the clock says 23:59._

_He can hear the low, pitiful wailings of a baby. The coffin no longer hangs from the ceiling, the blood gone from the floor, and the door to the right, where the wailing is louder, is no longer locked._

**_Don’t._ **

_He pushes against it, and then pulls, because it opens out and not in. The inside is dark save for a single glow on the floor – a flashlight he grabs without question (why?), shines against one wall, and then another, and the other, and then -_

_The light smacks against a mirror, whiting out his tarnished, fogged reflection, and beneath it, a baby screams from inside the sink. Shrieking howls of fear and loneliness and desperation as it calls for what will never be there._

**_The wife, who was shot in the stomach, was pregnant at the time._ **

_It’s deformed, stretchy – it’s head pulsates as it moves, a puddle of half-finished flesh that’s too empty to bleed, its mouth open wide and searching, its eyes closed tight in terror it can’t see to recognize. It squirms, arms going one way, torso the other, fingerless hands and feet with only the slightest of stubs that were beginning to be toes. Its neck is long – too long. The baby can’t support itself._

**_Don’t touch._ **

_His hands slide under the fragile skin, form around watery bones as he lifts the crying creature into the air. It moves like a decapitated chicken, too stunned to realize its failure at survival, but the cries die down to whimpers at the lack of the cool ceramic of the sink, the warmth of his hands seeping into its worthless body._

**_Don’t touch that!_ **

_He brings it to his chest, against the warmth of his body and the protection of his clothes. It continues to whimper, its neck flailing this way and that until its mouth brushes against his chest and it tries to latch. Starving. Empty. Alone. Outside the rain begins to pound harder. There’s scratching – is the coffin back? The child pushes closer, trying, failing like it has failed from the beginning._

_“Shh,” he whispers (doesn’t even move his lips). “I’ll take care of you.” (He says **nothing** )._

_Immediately, the wailing stops. The child, this half-formed creature that could have been beautiful but no longer exists for a purpose, opens its eyes. There is nothing – nothing is there but hollowed, dusty holes flaked with specks of blood. It stares at him, silent, unmoving but for the twitch of its hungry lips (drop it!), and he pulls it tighter._

_A burst of hysterical laughter cuts through the air, muffled only by the thin bit of wood that makes up the door, just as abruptly cutting off to the sound of gagging coughingt gurgling, gone. The baby takes in a deep, shuddering breath that moves its entire body against his chest, its neck twisting as it attempts to sit up. The clock begins its chimes for midnight._

_There’s a sudden, violent knock on the door._

_And it **screams.**_

 

 

 

 

 

****__  
  


_“Tony!”_

He wakes up, choking, gagging on the stench of blood that isn’t there anymore ( _Howard_ ). He opens his eyes to the glow of moonlight filtering through a rainless window, a clock that reads a green, peaceful 4:23. There’s cotton beneath his hands, softness against his skin. Something firm and heavy clutches at his shoulder, roughness digging into his muscle in soothing massage – Bruce.

“Hey,” the other man whispers gently, massaging wider, a kiss to his neck. Tony breathes, sucks in breath and sucks again, the air cool and soothing and wrong. “Hey. You’re not there. Tony? You’re not there.”

It’s a nightly routine; their routine for the four months they’ve been gone; escaped; been free. Sometimes the words are Tony’s, sometimes the words are Bruce’s. And so he tries to nod, tries form the required response (I’m here, I’m fine. We’re safe. I’m safe), but his lips didn’t move then and they don’t move now. He looks away from the window, over his shoulder to Bruce’s exposed, scarred form for help, but his lover’s eyes are not on him, but rather on his hands, still tightly clutching the sheets.

Covered in blood and ruined, curling slivers of unfinished flesh.

**Author's Note:**

> Watched the playable teaser for Silent Hills and _could not resist_.


End file.
